I Don’t Eat Anything with a Heart, Not Even Artichokes.


That night you said, ‛Darling,
you’re too avant-garde.’ And I said,
‛Shut up. You don’t even speak French.’

You said, ‛But darling, your eyes don’t rhyme anymore.’ And I said,

‛You’re a fucking fool. I cut out my revolutionary irises ages ago. You kept
fishing in them for cliches and I’m tired of that shit. Now they’re just  chopped
up mirrors circa 1933.’

And you smiled a non-smile and said,
‛It’s so amusing to watch you try to change your
you little Kantian chameleon.
You’re still an animal. You’re still a damn animal. You’re still damned.’

And I said, ‛Fuck you.’
And then I said ‛You fuck.’
And you said, ‛I fuck what?’

And I said, ‛Stop trying to read between the lines of my ribcage’, and

I fixed you with a marbly stare but you chiseled it with a kiss. I spoke
in tongues inside your mouth, ‛Besides, I write in circles now.’

You said, ‛Darling, you’re so avant-garde
you’re anorexic.

But think of me tomorrow when you can’t resist
Artichoke #3970.’

This is my creative response to this week’s readings in my Poetry and the Avant Garde class. We studied Rosalind Krauss and Kevin Brophy. Let me know what you think!


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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